


one for every season

by the_ragnarok



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Breeding, Coming Untouched, Enemas, M/M, Male Lactation, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Overstimulation, Rape Fantasy, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-30
Updated: 2015-09-30
Packaged: 2018-04-24 04:19:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4905235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John always thought he was an alpha. Turns out he was wrong. (Or: beta!Harold helps omega-all-along!John manage his heat properly for the first time.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	one for every season

**Author's Note:**

> Talktothesky, who is awesome, beta'd this.

The difference between alphas and omegas isn't that big. You know you're not a beta if you get heats and scent others and have the scent yourself, but whether you're alpha or omega is more about how you react to others, and others react to you, during heat.

Whenever John's in heat omegas melt and alphas want to fight him, and he knots, so that seemed like a no-brainer. He hates heats, but hey, he's not alone. Lots of people do. Chalk it up to control issues and call it a day.

The reason John hates heats is that the more he fucks, the worse the driving urge in him gets, the more desperate he becomes. When he's alone, he often ends up passing out and waking up badly sore and unsatisfied; in company, he keeps it together somehow, but the heat seems to last forever. (He did have partners commenting on how long he keeps it up. He thinks it was supposed to be a compliment.)

But then a number has the worst timing in history, and Harold says, "I'm afraid we don't have time to let your heat run its course, Mr. Reese," and John closes his eyes and says, "Do what you have to."

He keeps his eyes closed and lets Harold undress him, lead him, lets Harold push him to his knees. "I've had this prepared for a while," Harold says. His voice is still soft, just like the padded bench on which he nudges John to put his weight. 

When John feels the blunt edge of the toy against his rim, he wants to protest. This isn't him, he isn't like that.

"You are," Harold says, not unkindly, even though John stayed silent. "The physiognomic markers are very clear. Have none of your doctors wondered why you responded so poorly to suppressants? Nevermind," he says, when John tries to answer. "Try to stay relaxed."

Easy for Harold to say. And then, startlingly, easy for John to do, when the plug makes its inexorable way inside. It's right in a way he's never felt before. Dripping wet with lube, too, by the feel of it. Harold is being careful with him.

Then he hears Harold move, and there's a sound like a faucet turned on, and something wet inside John, and he can't think, can't.

Harold keeps answering questions that nobody asked him. "It might have been better to start with smaller volume, but I'm afraid we must work swiftly. No, be still." His hand is rubbing small circles onto the small of John's back, the heat of it sinking into John's bones. "Let it work."

John makes a low, faint noise.

He's full. So full, and so wet. Only his mouth is empty. He opens it, and finds the cuff of Harold's sleeve. It isn't what he wants, but it's good, the feel of it keeping him anchored.

Harold says John's name on an exhale, and then there are two fingers in John's mouth. He nurses on them, content. They don't taste like omega (or like alpha). They taste like Harold, which is better.

He's so hard. His cock's jutting out, untouched. John's aware of that the way he's aware of his own nakedness, the currents of air drifting around the room touching him. John doesn't feel a need to do anything with that information.

His stomach's filling, rounding up with the volume of liquid pumping into him. He feels like all of him is stretched out, a relief like finally lying down on his back after a long day spent hunched and bent. He wants to lie on his back now, show his belly.

At that thought he emits a tiny whine. 

Harold rubs his back some more. "I'll have to move soon. I'll try - ah, there."

John cries out when Harold takes his fingers out of his mouth, opens it eagerly when something else presses in. He's disappointed that it's only another toy. He still sucks on it, his mouth unwilling to let go of the pressure, the shape.

Then something else is easing into him, from behind, thin next to the plug but still a lot when he's never been breached like this at all. 

"Your semen production during heat corresponds to how much you spend." Harold sounds a little grim. "Since you believed yourself to be an alpha, you became caught in a vicious cycle - penile climax offered no relief, so you spent again, which in turn caused you to generate more for the next heat. Hopefully you can start putting that under control, now that you're aware."

John can't take all that in. All he knows is that Harold sounds disappointed, and he can't stand it. He whines.

The sudden pressure against his neck takes him off-guard. Harold's hand, gripping him hard and strong along the scruff like a cub. "It isn't your fault," Harold says, in a voice designed to hit John where he lives, even through the fog of heat. "I'm not angry with you, John. You're doing your best, and it exceeds my expectations."

Oh. _Oh_. John surges, clenching up, swallowing furiously around the toy. Something prickles at the corner of his eye: he feels like Harold somehow simultaneously squeezed his balls and his heart. He hears a gentle patter like falling rain, and realizes he's coming.

"That's right." Harold's voice is warm now. "Let it all out."

It goes on for a long time. Whenever the stream of come starts slowing down, Harold makes the smaller toy vibrate right against his prostate, pushing more out of him. John can't even tell if he's coming or not. This doesn't feel like any orgasm he's ever had, rising to unbearable heights of sensation, plateauing, then rising sharply again. He'd think he can't stand it, but this is Harold, and he never asks anything that John can't give.

Then he's limp, resting on the bench. Harold eases the smallest toy out of him as John spits out the one in his mouth. The plug stays in. John's stomach feels round and taut; his balls feel the same. "Rest for fifteen minutes," Harold says. "Then we'll start again."

~~

The second time Harold fills him up, John is better prepared.

It's not like he doesn't know what Harold's doing. There'll be alpha pheromones in the solution Harold pumps into him, cheating his insides into believing he's being bred. John doesn't even need to have an explanation. It's enough to feel the liquid going in, an instant relief like John has never found in a heat before.

But of course then Harold _has_ to say, "You're taking this remarkably well. I was expecting some kind of identity crisis by now."

John bites out, "Because I wasn't _thinking_ about it," and tunes out Harold's quick apologies, because the horse is well and truly away from the barn, kicking up dust behind it.

It's not that there's anything wrong with being an omega. Or, rather, John doesn't think that there is. Plenty of people do, and they'll use it as an excuse to do things he doesn't want to think about.

But of course, that means that he does think about it. And then he groans, his cock plumping and firming, hips moving. _Christ._

Harold is still trying to help and doing the absolute opposite. "We're quite safe in here," he says. "Nobody but me will see you or touch you."

And the thing is, now John wishes someone would. He thinks of hands forcing him down, rough into the floor, hands spreading his legs. Being fucked into, greedy and eager. He's seen gangbangs, heard the poor omegas scream. At the time, he felt only a vague hint of pity. A thin whine comes out of him.

The people who hated omegas, who wanted to _use_ them, would be at their most vicious with someone like John. Someone who'd been (who'd pretended to be) an alpha their entire lives. Someone who might or might not have handed those guys' asses to them a time or a dozen. They'd hurt him on purpose.

The way John is feeling right now, he'd take it and beg for more.

Harold's hands are still on him, gentle and caring, and right now John doesn't need that. He needs hard, he needs something to bite into him, needs violence and blood.

"Oh," Harold says. "Is that it? You only needed to say," and then a literal steel bar comes down and pins John in place. "John, please listen - can you say 'Red'?"

He can. For Harold, he can, and he gasps, "Red."

"Excellent. If you need me to stop, for any reason, say it. Can you do that?"

"Yes." It's half a response to the question and half instinctively formed approval. 

Harold moves, and the gentle rush of liquid filling him becomes a torrent, until John feels he's about to burst. Then Harold takes the plug out of him, lets the solution run out of John's hole and down his thighs, waiting until he's empty and aching before plugging him up and filling him again, over and over.

He comes intermittently, unexpectedly, little blink-fast jolts of need and relief that only register as orgasms because he hears the sound of his come dripping out of him. Harold gives him the toy to suck on again, after offering him something that smelled compelling and vile.

"Perhaps another brand will do," Harold murmurs, but John doesn't think so. He can't think of any alpha scent he'll want to take into him when Harold is right here next to him, not really.

He starts rubbing his chest against the padding at some point, blindly seeking pressure. Then he whines when the weight of the bar keeping him in place is lifted, quieting again at the touch of Harold's hands pushing him to lean up and expose his chest.

John holds back further whimpers. He wants to be good.

Then Harold's pinching his nipples - not the buds themselves but the circle of skin surrounding them, hard and unpleasant until it makes something connect, and then John's chest is also wet, like his thighs and his hole and his face. 

"Perhaps some sort of pumping arrangement," Harold mutters to himself, exerting steady pressure now, milking John. "How are you doing?"

John gasps, a thready little noise.

In response Harold _hmm_ s, giving John's nipples a few squeezes more before pinning him to the bench again. "You'll want to be careful with this - milk production rises according to demand, as well. Still, I think that should leave you in reasonable comfort without causing difficulties in the future."

When Harold puts the small, vibrating toy inside him again, John's ready for it. He knows how to angle his body to get the best of it. Each audible splash of come feels, absurdly, like a victory.

At last, he feels Harold's hand resting on the plug. "Not yet," John says, eyes shut.

Harold goes still. "What do you need?"

Words seem like such a silly way to express what he wants. John wants to arch his back, open his mouth, and Harold should just know what he means. But that's not going to happen, so he says, "Fuck me." He'll leave it to Harold to decide between his mouth and his hole, John's not picky right now.

Harold sighs. "I'll get you a bigger plug."

With more speed than John thought he was capable of at the moment, he's got Harold's wrist in his grasp. "Don't need it. Need you."

"I'm sure you think you mean that." Harold sounds tired. "Let go, John."

John does. He lets Harold bring the bigger plug, which does help. It hits John like a bell being struck, huge and hollow.

~~

John wakes up to a feeling that's both familiar and strange. Strange because, for once, his body is sated, not clamoring for more.

Familiar because his heart _is_ clamoring, still beating painful and desperate in his chest. The two together feel like vertigo, like the world spinning.

A hand rests on his back. "You have a few more minutes," Harold says softly. "I'll go get you a glass of water."

This time, when John grasps his wrist, Harold doesn't pull away. John says, "Stay," and Harold says, "Of course."

~~

He's still a little shaky on his feet when he goes after the number, but thankfully, it's not a difficult case. He leaves the abusive girlfriend tied up for Carter and scared into confessing and goes back to the library almost whistling.

"Would you like to have dinner?" Harold asks, eyes on the screen.

It's too good an opening to give up. "I'd like to have you," John says instead, soft and smoky, a voice that usually works for his seduction routines. 

Of course, there's nothing usual about Harold. He turns to John, frowning. John expects him to hint obliquely that John must still be in heat, but Harold has to be one step ahead of him. "Forming an attachment to the first person who managed your heat properly is quite common, and hardly a foundation to anything more. Now that you know, you might find someone more compatible."

"Are you saying you don't want me, Harold?" Because Harold promised never to lie, and John's not above hitting where it hurts. "Or are you saying I don't know my own mind?"

Harold narrows his eyes at him instead of answering. "The latter. Can you honestly say I'm wrong?"

Because Harold is the smartest man he knows, John gives the idea a good, thorough exam. He hasn't thought of Harold sexually before the heat, but that's standard for John, who tends to experience attraction like being ambushed and hit with a blunt instrument. If he and Harold _can_ be sexual, well, that seals it: what could anyone else possibly have that John might want?

He looks at Harold with unfogged eyes, taking him in. Bulging eyes, bristly hair. Fair skin, good hands, a mouth that's softer than it has any right to be in that stern face. John decides he needs to experience it for himself, and he closes the gap between them with swift steps.

Harold stops him with a raised hand. "I'm still convinced this is a terrible idea." But his posture is opening up, his eyes darting helplessly all over John's body. Just the hint of Harold _wanting_ him hits John like a shot of whiskey, an addictive burn.

John grins and starts taking off his shirt. "What do you need to be convinced?"

Harold's throat works. His resolve is a fragment of what it usually is: probably he spent all his considerable restraint on leading John through his heat without making advances or even thinking of his own arousal. John will have to pay him back for that. He lets Harold take a good look at his naked form before getting on with it.

Not above playing dirty, John spreads his legs and reaches back, pushing two fingers inside himself. "I'm still wet from when you opened me," he tells Harold.

That has the opposite effect of what John meant. Harold blanches. "Goodness, you must be sore."

"Not at all," John lies. He could take Harold, though. It would be more than worth it. 

"No." Harold's face shuts down, his resolve like steel. But so is his erection, even hidden under his suit: John can smell arousal on him now, beta-faint and muted but undeniably there.

John licks his lips. "My jaw doesn't hurt," he says hopefully.

Harold groans and buries his face in his hands. "Why would you do this?" he says. "What on Earth are you trying to accomplish?"

"The next time I get off," John says, with complete and utter sincerity, "I want it to be with your dick inside me. In my mouth or my ass, I don't care, I'll love it either way."

Harold makes a small, helpless noise, his hips rising with an audible creak of bone, and slumps. Spots of color appear high in his cheeks, and another spot, dark and damp, appears on the front of his pants.

John knows exactly how smug he looks going to his knees, unbuttoning Harold's fly. Harold doesn't even offer a token protest as John takes his spent cock out of his underwear and licks it worshipfully clean.

Once Harold starts squirming, John moves back. "So we're in agreement?"

"Your tactics are completely underhanded," Harold says. John nods and tucks him back into his pants. "Yes, damn it."

"Good." John gets up to his feet, whistling. "I'll go get tea and things for my place," he tells Harold. "Grab some changes of clothes. If you're not there in two hours, I'm tracking you down."

"Such romance," Harold says dryly.

Whatever. "You had a heat kit ready and waiting for me," John says. "I don't think you should be throwing any stones."

He leaves whistling, thinking about what Harold will do for his next heat. He's sure he can't even hope to match the breadth of Harold's imagination, but that's half the charm, right there.


End file.
